


Mickey and the Secrets of the Night

by BillieJ



Series: A fic a day in May [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Adaptation, French Folklore, M/M, Tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:52:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BillieJ/pseuds/BillieJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An adaptation of "Pierrot et les Secrets de la Nuit" which is a french folklore love story I love and i felt like Gallavich fit awesome. </p>
<p>"Mickey and Ian grew up together around there, going to the same school, and later their paths separated when Mickey became a baker boy and Ian a launderer; of course, a baker works night, so that everybody in Canaryville would have warm loaves and croissants in the morning. A launderer works on days.<br/>However, they should have been able to meet, when the day and the night met, at sunrise when Mickey went to bed, exhausted, and when Ian started a fresh day, or on the sunset, when Mickey went downstairs to bake, full of energy, and Ian closed the laundry station, his heavy eyelids dropping.<br/>But Ian avoided Mickey, and the poor baker was feeling sad." </p>
<p>Day 4 of A fic a Day in May !</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mickey and the Secrets of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody !
> 
> So, I hope you will enjoy this tale, it's folkloric and can be a little strange and I took a few liberties with the original story. I feel like it's kind of a metaphore on itself, and I even added some references about Ian's disease.  
> Oh and Pierrot (so Mickey in my version) is supposed to be quiet and extremely moony and shy but hey, it Mickey, I wasn't gonna make him dance to the moon hahaha.   
> I must credit Michel Tournier and Danièle Bour, since it's their version I know the most and that inspired me.  
> Enjoy !

Two little white houses faced each other in Canaryville. One was a laundry service. Nobody remembered the name of Ian the launderer because everybody called him Red, because of his fiery mane. The other one was Mickey’s house.

Mickey and Ian grew up together around there, going to the same school, and later their paths separated when Mickey became a baker boy and Ian a launderer; of course, a baker works night, so that everybody in Canaryville would have warm loaves and croissants in the morning. A launderer works on days.

However, they should have been able to meet, when the day and the night met, at sunrise when Mickey went to bed, exhausted and Ian started a fresh day, or on the sunset, when Mickey went downstairs to bake, full of energy, and Ian closed the laundry service his heavy eyelids dropping..

But Ian avoided Mickey, and the poor baker was feeling sad.

His old baseball friend reminded him a lot of unpleasant things. Ian only liked the sun, birds and flowers. He only liked warm and bright summers. But, as said earlier, the baker lived mostly at night, and for Ian, night only was a dark place, where demons and monsters hid, as well as werewolves and bats. He would rather close his doors and components, and curl himself in a shield of clean white sheets to sleep. More than that, Mickey’s life revolved around two other scary darknesses, one from his basement, and the other from the oven. What about rats and opossums in basements ?

Mickey had the looks of his job. Maybe because he only worked nights and slept during day, he had a really pale face, pale as the moon. His big cleaver eyes made him look like an owl, as well as his loose clothes, whitened with flour. Like the moon and like the owl, Mickey was shy and secretive. He preferred winter over summer, loneliness to people, and instead of talking (which he didn't do a lot, except when he snapped at people when he got mad) he rather wrote, which he did a lot, at candlelight, with a large and beautiful feather pen, addressing Ian long letters that he never sent, mostly because Ian was a guy and he’d probably hate him for writing such things to him. He wrote anyway, explaining Ian that night wasn't what he believed. Mickey knew what night was like, and it wasn't a large black hole, neither were his basement or oven.

At night, the river sings louder and clearer, and shines with a thousands silver sparkles. Mickey knows the moon, he knows how to look at it. He knows it’s not a cold disc, that it’s round and it has valleys and hills, like a smiley face, like the pale dough he makes.

All of that, Mickey knows it because after he spends the early hours of the night making, fertilizing and kneading dough, it needs two hours to rest and swell. So, he goes out of his bake-house and walks in the village. Of course, Canaryville isn't the garden of Eden, hell, some people even say that God avoids this place at any cost, but it has its own beauty, when everything is asleep and no thug walks down the cold paths.

He walks like an angel, thinking about all these children, these women and those men who’ll wake up in a few hours, only to eat the warm croissant that he bakes. He walks under Ian’s closed doors and windows and make himself his guardian. He likes to imagine the young man, in the warm whiteness of his small bed, and as he looks up the moon, he wonders if this sweet and smooth curve is the one of a cheek, a chest or a bum.

* * *

 

No doubt things would have gone on and on like that forever, if one summer morning a funny caravan pulled by a no less strange man hadn't made its way through Canaryville. On its side, a colorful sign spelled

HARLEQUIN

building painter

A grey but vivid man, with happy eyes and a bright outfit, made of tiny argyles in all kinds of lively colors, and none were white or black. He stopped his caravan in front of Mickey’s shop, wincing at the sight of his sad and bare façade which only spelled two words :

MICKEY BAKERY

He rubbed his hands and decided to knock at his door.

It was daytime and Mickey slept deeply. “Harlequin” must have drummed a long time at his wooden door, before it opened on a paler-than-ever Mickey, reeling in fatigue. Poor Mickey ! He really looked like an owl, all white, tousled, bushed, all startled by the cruel noon daylight. So, even before “Harlequin” was able to open his mouth, a big laugh started behind him. It was Red Ian who had watched the scene with much interest from his window, a huge iron in his hand.

“Harlequin” turned around and saw him, then laughed as well, and Mickey found himself sad and alone, in his _moony_ castoff, facing these two sunny people brought together by their shiny gaiety. Usually, when he was this mad, Mickey wouldn't think twice about punching the person before him in the face, but Ian was here, and he couldn't stand to look even worse in his eyes, so he only smashed the door closed and stomped his way upstairs, going straight to his bed, where he didn't even remotely found sleep again before a long time.

“Harlequin” went across the street to the laundry service where Red had disappeared. He looked around, cheking every window where he only had a little glance at red hair, as if Red was mocking him by playing hide and seek. Finally, he made his mind and brought his hand at the door to knock. But then Red suddenly opened his door and went out with a basket of clean drapes. He went straight in his backyard, followed by the colorful man.

“ How come a beautiful man such as you only dresses in these white clothes ?”

“Aren’t you just a smoothie ?”

The man laughed.

“ Your hair is so joyful, these bright colors would match it perfectly don’t you think ?”

Ian looked across the street to Mickey’s window and again at the man.

“What’s your name ?”

“I’m Ned Harlequin, how about you Red ?”

Ian smiled at his seductive voice and glanced once again at Mickey’s house.

“Just Red”

He said, accepting Harlequin's colorful shirt handed him.

Later this day, Ian agreed in letting Ned painting his façade. The vivid man disassembled his caravan, making a scaffolding that embraced Ian’s house.

He works, whistling and singing. Sometimes, Ian would look outside a window and they’d exchange jokes. Very fast, the white clean façade goes rainbow varicolored under Ned’s work. There’s no shades of white, black or grey. First, he figured an Ian, dressed with lots of colors he never wore, with a laundry basket on his head and not only has he colored the black letters of “LAUNDRY” on Ian’s façade, but he added “DYEING” next to them. He worked so fast that by the end of the day, as the sun sets, everything’s finished, even if the paint still dries.

When the sun goes to sleep, Mickey wakes up. He goes downstairs, lighting up the bake-house, making warm shades of gold escaping through the cellar window and into the street. When he finishes to knead the dough, he goes upstairs and goes for his walk in the night. At first, he only sees the moon which fills him with joy, but then, when he seeks the sight of Ian’s house, he can’t believe what he sees.

Nothing is the same ! The once sober front is now motley and unrecognizable. He stays mouth gaped and startled eyes at the sight of this Harlequin-dressed Ian, who looks nothing like the delicate and smiling man he loves from afar.

And what about this disgusting “DYEING” word attached to “LAUNDRY” ? Ian had let himself fall for Harlequin ? Mickey steps one foot too far and trips with a foot in Harlequin’s paint can.

He gets up, annoyed, and goes for the scaffolding. The awful thing about them, is that you just have to climb it to have a look at what happens inside people’s houses through their windows.

He climbs up, craving to have a look at his Ian asleep, but when he reaches the bedroom window upstairs, the sight of what’s going on in makes him jolt and fall back on the floor, two floors up.

It’s a terrible fall, and Mickey lies on his back, sore in pain, his back throbbing and his heart breaking.

He gets up and limps towards his bake-house, where he finds himself a seat, trying hard not to break any furniture in his angry pain.

He catches a beautiful paper, closes himself from the candle and writes a letter to Ian. This time, he wants him to have it. He goes to the scaffolding across the street and attaches the note to one of the pieces.

The following morning, Ian goes out of his house, dressed the way Ned pictured him on his front. He is joyful, grabs Harlequin’s hand and they dance around. Harlequin soon wants to move.

“You mean like go on a trip ?” asks an excited Ian.

“Yeah, Red, what else is left to do in here ? Canaryville is dead. You should go with me !”

Ian is excited as he never once was and he grabs a light bundle with him as Ned builds his caravan back from the pieces of the scaffolding.

They go without looking back, in their rainbow varicolored caravan and soon enough, the colorful country surrounds them.

In Canaryville, the night falls on the village and Mickey goes downstairs, low and depressed. He ventures outside before going to the basement.

On Ian’s façade, although he can’t believe it, there’s no scaffolding and no caravan, and a big sign spells :

CLOSED BECAUSE OF HONEYMOON

Mickey tremble, and although he’s always been tough enough not to cry, to silent tears make their way through his face.

“Fuck.”

Ian was gone. He went away with the most colorful faggot in the whole world when Mickey had been to scared for years to show any misplaced interest toward the other man that Ian was.

He goes downstairs to his basement and makes his own sign, goes outside and sets it on his front :

CLOSED BECAUSE OF FUCKING HEARTBREAK

* * *

 

Days go by, and the summer is almost over.

Harlequin and Red go and visit the country, but it’s not the same anymore. More and more, it’s Red who pulls the caravan and Harlequin who rests behind.

Then, the weather goes bad and the first fall showers rattle on their heads. Their beautiful, bright and colorful outfits start to rub. Ian is feeling more and more tired, all his excitement fading away like the martins move to the South.

The trees go red to brown then bare themselves to sleep the long dark night of winter.

One day, early in the morning, it’s the summit : dark clouds gathered themselves for hours around them and a freezing wind rises. Icy flakes fall down while Ian can’t get up, terrified and deeply sad.

“Ned…? Harlequin ?”

A tired scoff is his answer, and he feels himself diving into a sad pain, memories of Canaryville tightening his chest and mind. While Ned is asleep, he sits and looks around. Hanged on one of the caravan pieces, a paper sheet peeks at him. He grabs it, opens it and it leaves him breathless.

 

> _Ian !_
> 
> _Don’t go ! Don’t give up on me !_
> 
> _Don’t let yourself hook up by Harlequin’s stupid chemical colors !_
> 
> _They’re toxic, smelly and they fade away._
> 
> _I have my fucking colors too, and I’m sorry I was scared to show you._
> 
> _They’re deep and true colors._
> 
> _Read these wonderful secrets :_
> 
> _My night isn't black, it’s blue !_
> 
> _And it’s a blue you can fucking breathe._
> 
> _My oven isn't black, it’s gold !_
> 
> _And it’s a gold you can eat._
> 
> _The color I make is great looking, it’s thick, full and substantial, it smells good, it’s warm, and it feeds._
> 
> _I’m waiting for you,_
> 
> _Mickey_

 

Ian felt numb, numb with the darkness around him and in his head. But this note, it smelled of the bake-house, it spelled words of light and warm love. He got up and quickly assembled his bundle. Ned was asleep and he didn't care about him or whatever was going on with him.

The land is full of snow, and it cracks under his feet. It goes crunch-crich-croch and suddenly a lot of awful words come to his mind as he walks forwards, such as “cold, clammy, craziness, crack” and he feels like he’s just going to pass out in the freezing cold, beaten up by those words.

He tightens his fists, thinking of Mickey and a whole bunch of other C words come to his mind like “care, calm, cake, candle, cook, cuddle” and they intertwined in his mind like an army and march through the darkness, like himself is, making a path of hope.

He finally arrives to Canaryville. It’s late at night. Everything sleeps under the cover of the snow in the dark silence.

White snow ? Black night ? No. Maybe it was because he closed himself from Mickey, but Ian can finally see, the warm light coming from the cellar window also warming his heart and eyes. The night is blue, it’s obvious ! But it’s no longer toxic and garish Prussian blue that Harlequin owns, it’s a luminous blue, alive in the lakes, glaciers and skies, a blue that smells good and that Ian breaths with all his lungs.

It smells like warm loaves and Ian’s mouth waters. Suddenly, the door in front open and he faces Mickey. Had he seen him though the cellar window ? Or had he just felt him coming ?

Ian couldn't say anything, his mind still dark, only focused on the warm healing presence of Mickey.

It looks like Mickey is going to jump to hug him but instead, shy as he is, just grabs his hand and guides him downstairs.

It’s like walking in a pool of tenderness. Who knew that the scary night-living baker lived in such a warm a soothing place ? The basement felt wonderful, and Ian’s frozen limbs were coming back to life.

“Took you long enough…”

Ian couldn't speak. There was no traces of reproach in Mickey’s voice.

Noticing something Mickey guided Ian to the back of the basement, where a shakedown made of smooth flour bags laid in a corner. Ian laid down on it, watching him work on the corner of his eyes, like he was watching the light deep down from a dark tunnel in his mind.

Mickey gets rid of the bottle of Jack sitting on his counter. The warmth he needed all the time Ian was gone isn't necessary anymore. He’s here, frozen and broken but he is here, seeking comfort and love by his side.

Mickey has an idea, he is going to sculpt an Ian-shaped brioche. He smiles, the heart warm and starts to work. When he’s finished, he rubs some egg on the top of his sculpture to make the result extra red and he looks at the result. Of course, it’s still pale, so he shovels it as fast as he can.

There are two Ian in his bake-house now. Once he finished working on his bread, he went to his Ian and caressed his pale freckled skin.

Soft knocks wake Ian up and on the outside, we can hear Harlequin singing a song, famous by now all through France, sung by every children, even if only a little know the actual story we just told :

 

> _Au clair de la lune_
> 
> _Mon ami Pierrot (Mickey)_
> 
> _Prête moi ta plume_
> 
> _Pour écrire un mot_
> 
> _Ma chandelle est morte_
> 
> _Je n’ai plus de feu_
> 
> _Ouvre-moi ta porte_
> 
> _Pour l’amour de Dieu._
> 
>  
> 
> [In the light of the moon, Pierrot(Mickey), my friend
> 
> Loan me your pen to write something down
> 
> My candle's dead, I've got no flame to light it
> 
> Open your door, for the love of God!]
> 
>  

Mickey shakes in anger but he keeps cool. Harlequin had found the letter that Ian had read before he came back to him so now he was asking him, Mickey, to lend his candle and his feather pen to write something for Ian so he could have him back ? Seriously ?!

He went upstairs and opened the door. Ned was looking at him with sad eyes, frozen under the snow that was still falling.

“You want to go inside ?”

“Will I have what’s mine ?”

Mickey’s jaw tightened.

“Nothing’s yours. Look at that façade, he said pointing Ian’s house. That’s what’s yours. What’s left of what’s yours.”

The painting was almost gone, the colors had quickly faded during the fall and the snow was just finishing the work. Ned made a hurtful noise and Mickey had a smug smirk that made him even more look like the moon.

“You wanna see what’s real colors ? What’s really mine ?”

He went inside, let himself being followed by that excuse of a man and went straight to the oven. Ian was cooked, it was perfect. Mickey grabbed his wooden shovel and took it out.

He smiled at Harlequin’s paleness and looked over to Ian who had sit down to look at him. The brioche statue of Ian was perfect, it was golden, with fiery hair, smooth and warm, naked.

It was Ian as simple as the nature had made him, far away from the awful painting on his house.

Mickey smiled at him and Ian got up and admired his image.

Mickey grabbed the best part of the statue, the hard and long dick lying between the long golden legs.

Ian grinned, amused and accepted the share that was given him. He ate it, slow at first and then dove, head first on the warm brioche bread and stuff himself.

“I smell so good ! I’m so beautiful !” he mumbled, his eyes watering towards Mickey.

He didn't reply anything.

It was a strange sight, Mickey eating Ian’s brioche dick, Ian eating himself, hugging the brioche statue.

“You still here ?” said Mickey towards Harlequin.

Harlequin was watching Ian with sad eyes but his mouth was watering at both Ians and Mickey finally saw red.

“What’you looking at, fucker ?! Get the fuck outta here !”

Harlequin stomped upstairs, dizzy and his nose bleeding.

Mickey shook the pain away from his knuckles and closed himself from Ian. Forever.

 

THE END

 

 


End file.
